


Fitting

by DecidedlyUndecidedly



Category: Eurovision Song Contest RPF, Hatari (Band)
Genre: Fetish Clothing, Other, RPF, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 03:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19242862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DecidedlyUndecidedly/pseuds/DecidedlyUndecidedly
Summary: You're helping Klemens try on some new stage wear.





	Fitting

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my own struggles with harnesses and other complicated items of clothing. We must suffer to be beautiful.

“No, I don’t think it’s right. Sorry.”

“OK, how about this?”

You pull another harness from the heap of straps and buckles at your feet, your latest haul from an online fetish shop. Klemens unthreads himself from the previous one, now for the returns pile.

“Yeah that looks cool,” he says. It’s a black body harness, with thin criss-crossing straps, spiked with studs. A contradiction – the straps invite someone to grab them, but the studs make that difficult. This is what happens when you mix fetish with fashion, as the original purpose of the garment, having something to hold onto while you fuck the wearer senseless, becomes abstracted to the point of uselessness. It’s what happens when you mix fashion with anything. But at least it seems appropriate for Hatari and their vision of a capitalist dystopia, a world where everyone looks fuckable but you can’t fuck them, can’t have that simple, loving connection. And, as Klemens says, it looks cool. You hold it out to him, but he shakes his head, smiles a little.

“I think you’re going to have to help me with this one.”

Which is true. The fastenings are in the back. So you step closer, trying to work out which body part goes through which hole, and which should go first. You find the centre and hold the harness up by the shoulders.

“Fine, put your arms through here and I’ll work out the rest.”

“It’s OK, if you just do the back, I can do the…” he gestures to the bottom half, where it needs to be buckled round his thighs and crotch. 

“And miss out on all the fun? Don’t worry about it, princess, just stay still.”

Flirting like this is easy, though you still don’t know where you stand. Even if… but no, that was a while ago. And it only happened once.

He’s trying out stage-wear, so he’s dressed for the stage, almost. No shirt, tight trousers, not the white latex ones. These are slightly more comfortable for an afternoon sifting through potential outfits. As you step in front of him to see if the top half is sitting right, you’re drawn to his tattoos, as ever. You gently touch the tuning fork.

“I do love that…” your eyes meet “Um, how does that feel? Would you be fine having it tighter? It’s not quite –” tugging at the strap over his pec, where it’s pulling away from his body.

“You tell me, I’m just supposed to stay still, right?” He’s smirking now, infuriating and gorgeous. “It can go tighter. As tight as you want.”

So you try again, see the leather biting into the skin of his back as you pull the strap up by one notch, two. He rolls his shoulders, feeling out the restrictions, and you have the urge to kiss him right on his shoulder blade as he does so, just a little, he’d barely notice. Instead, you slip two fingers beneath the bands across his back, checking there’s still some give. There’s enough, though they’ll leave marks. You long to leave marks on him. Scratches gouged from his back at least, so much more besides. Think how pretty he’d look, better if he cried from the pain and the pleasure of it all.

You worry, sometimes, about your imagination.

Now you crouch down, one hand against his hip as you pull one, two straps around his thigh, remember, it’s got to be tight. He shifts his weight onto the other leg to make this easier for you, though it’s making you blush as well, and he knows it. Then the other thigh, and you allow yourself to feel the muscle through the fabric of his trousers. You want to tear it off with your teeth, bite him there, again, making your mark, staking your claim. Straightening up, you pull the final strap between his legs, fastening it at the small of his back. He turns his head just slightly while you do this, looking for your reaction from the corner of his eye. He bites his lip. It’s done.

“That’s it. What do you think?”

You step back as Klemens looks in the mirror, twisting and turning, examining different angles.

“It’s great, I like it.”

“I don’t know,” you say, “I still feel like it’s not – not quite there.”

Klemens gives you that look. You know the one.

“Why don’t we take it all off,” he says, “and try something else.”


End file.
